


and here we are (right back where we started)

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brothers Don't Know They're Brothers, Community: smpc, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, First Time, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: They find each other at the end.





	and here we are (right back where we started)

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate ending to 4x17 - It's a Terrible Life. Written for the SMPC (Sunday Morning Porn Club) community on LiveJournal.

They run into each other by chance. 

"Dean," someone says behind him, and Dean knows exactly who that voice belongs to even before he turns around.

"Sam," Dean says, looking up into Sam's eyes. "Been a while."

They're both standing in line at a Starbucks on a Saturday morning. It's been eighteen months since they've last seen each other. Eighteen months since they'd dispatched the ghost of P.T. Sandover together. 

"Yeah," Sam breathes.

They stand for a moment out of time just taking each other in. The expression on Sam's face is barely a smile, guarded and wistful, but his gaze on Dean's is like a gate into another world. 

The sudden knot in Dean's throat doesn't stop him from speaking. "You, uh, it's good to see you." 

"You too." Sam shuffles his feet, as if trying to decide if he should turn and leave. 

Dean doesn't want him to leave. He's not sure what to say or do to make Sam stay, but Sam lingers long enough for the two of them to place their orders, and the ecstatic flutter in Dean's gut is potent enough that it cancels out the awkwardness.

Dean gets his order first--brewed chai tea with a splash of steamed skim milk--and he lingers too, halfway between the counter and the doors. He beckons at Sam after the barista hands him his coffee, indicating an empty table outside. 

"You still with Sandover?" Sam asks as they sit down.

"I am," Dean says. He offers Sam a small smile. "People are still telling the story of how you quit."

Sam lowers his eyes, smiling softly into his coffee, and the dimples on his cheeks make a tentative appearance. "It felt good," he murmurs. "Quitting that place." He looks up again, fixing his gaze on Dean. 

Dean fidgets with his cup. "So, uhm, you live around here?"

"Couple of blocks east from here," Sam says. "I was gonna leave Cincinnati, but I- I guess I didn't feel like I was done with it yet."

A knot forms in Dean's throat again, and he masks it by pretending to sip from his tea. 

"What about you?" Sam asks. "Did you- did you move? I mean, it's 7:30 AM on a Saturday."

"Oh, uh, no. I just, I've been venturing out of my familiar spots, like, kind of exploring different parts of the city. I do a different route every other weekend, park somewhere nearby and just- just walk. You know? Try and see what I've been missing." Dean rubs his thumbs against the paper sleeve around his cup. "Been thinking of maybe taking up jogging on Sundays." 

Sam nods. "You still on your health kick, then? You- you look good."

"Thanks," Dean says. He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck with his hand. Smiles a little at Sam again. "You're looking pretty good too. Been working out?"

"Yeah, twice a week. Got myself a gym membership."

Dean grins at that. "Did you get to use your line on anyone yet?" He intends it as a friendly inside joke, but he feels like an asshole the second the words are out of his mouth. 

The hurt look on Sam's face is like a knife in Dean's chest. "It wasn't a line."

"Sorry, man, I'm-" Dean sighs. Swallows hard, holding Sam's gaze with his, not trying to cover his embarrassment. Wondering if Sam really can't tell how happy he is to see him. "I'm not really great at, uhm-"

"Having a conversation without sounding like an absolute dick?"

They sit in tense silence just staring at each other, neither of them touching their drinks. The street is quiet, with barely any traffic or people out yet this early on a weekend. 

Pigeons coo somewhere nearby. A gentle breeze ruffles Sam's hair. 

"I can do better," Dean says in an apologetic tone. 

It's not good enough, Dean's well aware of that. But Sam doesn't get up, doesn't punch him in the face, and Dean keeps holding Sam's gaze until Sam heaves a trembling sigh. 

A shiver runs down Dean's spine, raises goose bumps on his skin. He recognizes that sound, catches the longing in Sam's eyes before Sam looks away. It's something Dean's felt often enough in the last year and a half. 

"I'm- I'm glad you decided to stay," Dean murmurs. He waits until Sam turns back to him. "I mean, this city has its charms." 

"Yeah," Sam says. He looks into Dean's eyes. "It does."

Dean's pulse quickens. He watches as the late September breeze ruffles Sam's hair again, and has to resist the urge to reach out and brush those errant locks from Sam's brow. "So where are you working now?"

"Cincinnati Art Museum. Security, night shifts all week." Sam sips his coffee, looks at Dean again. "Free weekends," he adds, almost like an afterthought. 

"Oh," Dean says. "That's, uhm, that actually sounds interesting."

Sam shrugs. "It's not bad. I like the quiet." 

"Anything spooky?"

"Besides the occasionally horrendous modern art exhibition? Nothing. What about Sandover?"

"Nothing," Dean echoes. "Unlike the rest of the planet."

"It's been crazy, huh? All those fires in Scotland. The earthquakes in China. The weird weather in California."

"All the animal deaths in Australia," Dean adds. "The floods and avalanches in South America. Been feeling like the end of the world out there." 

Sam sips his coffee and sets his cup on the table, licking his lips. "The Ghostfacers' site's been down for a couple of weeks now."

"I noticed," Dean says simply. Knowing that there's nothing simple about that statement. 

They both fall silent again, Dean's tea going cold in its cup without him having taken a single sip.

"Anyway," Sam says after several awkward minutes. "I should go. Got a mountain of laundry to deal with, and I- it's after my shift and I was home only long enough to change before heading here, I mean, I like coming here every Saturday morning, so I need- I haven't slept yet and I-" He pushes his chair back and stands up. "I know, I overshare." He slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'm glad I got to see you again, Dean."

Sam's tone is so earnest that Dean's reaching for him before he realizes he's going to. 

"Sam, wait."

Sam freezes. Looks at Dean's hand on his arm, then at Dean's face. He sits down again. 

"Have you, uh, have you ever watched _The Wire_? I keep hearing it's a great show, so I got the first season on DVD. Didn't get around to watching it yet. You wanna come over sometime? I'll cook dinner, we could watch a couple of episodes, maybe?"

"Sure," Sam says. "Sometime."

"How about tonight," Dean says, holding Sam's gaze firmly with his. "Free weekends, right?"

The smile that Sam aims at him is more devastating than any freak weather, hotter than any wildfire.

"All right," Sam says. "I'll bring beer."

Dean smiles, somewhat sheepish. "I've given up beer. For good."

"Red wine, then? It's good for your heart."

Having Sam sounding this hopeful is definitely good for Dean's heart. "Eight-thirty? If you give me your number I'll text you the address."

"I remember where. You said you haven't moved?" When Sam gets up to leave this time, his hand brushes against Dean's shoulder as he walks past. 

Dean feels the phantom sensation of that touch for the longest while.

*

Eight forty-five and the intercom buzzes. Dean lets Sam into the building and waits nervously for him to come up, freshly shaved and wearing his best shirt. His heart still jumps when the knock sounds at his door. 

"Hey," Sam greets him, filling the doorway with more nervous energy.

"Hey," Dean murmurs. 

Time seems to stand still again. Dean allows his gaze to wander, noticing that Sam's clean shaven too. The dark green shirt he has on accentuates his broad shoulders, brings out his kaleidoscopic eyes. He's holding a bottle of wine in his hand, one that must have cost more than what he can comfortably afford. 

It's been eighteen months. Eighteen long months, and Dean never stopped wondering, never forgot that he'd been the one to let Sam go. 

Tonight Dean grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt and pulls him into his apartment. 

Sam lets out a gasp, half stumbling as Dean drags him inside, but then he's kicking the door closed behind him. Dean pushes Sam back against the door and their mouths meet in a starving kiss, the two of them panting as their tongues tangle wetly. Dean presses his thigh between Sam's legs, grunts into Sam's mouth, and Sam spreads those mile long legs, makes just enough room for Dean to fit himself between them. 

It's sweet, so sweet it hurts. Sam's arms are around him and Dean grinds their hips together, feels the long line of Sam's cock rubbing against his and oh, it's sweet, it's hot, it's everything and not enough, and the thrill of it, the _need_ , it makes Dean tremble, makes him want to fall to his knees. 

Somewhere in their shared frenzy their kisses turn softer. Still intense but also tender, seeking. Dean rocks against Sam and he still needs, he still wants but he knows now. He's never letting Sam go.

"You really cooked," Sam whispers against Dean's lips. The whole kitchen and living area smell like dinner. 

"You really brought wine," Dean breathes.

They both smile, and Dean feels it against his lips, the shape Sam's lips make when he's happy. They kiss again, slow and breathless, exploring each other's mouths, and with anyone else this might have felt like drowning, like losing himself, but with Sam it feels more like being found. 

"C'mon," Dean says. "Let's eat." He pulls away, but they stay close as Dean guides them toward the dining table. "It's grilled steak, vegetable and quinoa salad with yogurt-tahini dressing. Uh, I hope that doesn't sound disgusting to you."

Sam's knuckles are white around the bottle of wine he's still holding. He lets go when Dean pries it from his hand, laughing softly. "Sounds great, actually," he says.

They sit at the table, and Dean opens the wine and pours, filling Sam's glass first. "To second chances," he says when he raises his glass. 

"To second chances," Sam repeats after him. 

The wine is very good, but it's Sam that Dean feels intoxicated by. Anticipation flows dark and heady through Dean's limbs, sits warmly in Dean's belly. 

They eat in silence for a while, sharing glances and smiles, their legs touching under the table. 

"I'd hoped you were gonna quit too," Sam says, catching Dean's eyes. "The day I did."

"I wanted to," Dean says. "I almost did. I don't know-" He sighs, remembering the decidedly generous bonus Adler gave him that day. Remembering how the words had been right there, on the tip of his tongue. "It's weird, I feel like it's been a while since I had a clear thought."

Sam sighs too. "I kept hoping at first. It's why I didn't leave."

Dean puts his fork down and pushes his chair back, moves the napkin from his lap and onto the table. He looks at Sam in open invitation until Sam gets up, and Dean grabs him by the hips, tilts Sam toward him, mouths Sam's half-hard cock through his jeans.

Sam slides his hand around the back of Dean's neck as if it's always belonged there and Dean squirms in his chair, breathes heavily when he feels Sam's trapped cock swell under his questing lips. 

"Dean," Sam whispers. Just his name, but Dean wants to hear it again, he wants to know what Sam means when he says it. 

He lets Sam haul him up from the chair and their mouths clash again, their arms winding around each other. Their bodies press close together and every inch of Dean's skin aches and sings, asking for more. 

"Bed," Dean says, and somehow they make it there, shirts and belts and shoes discarded along the way. 

It's dark in the bedroom. The city glitters through the panoramic windows, a million lights burning beyond and below them like artificial stars.

"I've never," Sam whispers.

"Me neither," Dean says.

They let go of each other long enough to take the rest of their clothes off. Dean turns his bedside lamp on and then he's climbing into bed, he's fitting a pillow under his hips. He lies back and spreads his legs, revealing the butt plug that's been keeping him ready for Sam for the past couple of hours. It's true that he's never been with a man before, but the dildo he bought half a year ago as a sad substitute for something he'd thought he couldn't have has seen plenty of use. 

Sam's mouth hangs open at the sight, and Dean watches as Sam's gorgeous cock twitches. His own cock stands at attention against his stomach, already leaking. Without a word, he reaches for the bottle of lube waiting on his nightstand and hands it to Sam. 

"Wait," Sam says. He searches the floor around the bed, trying to locate his discarded jeans. 

"No condom," Dean rasps. He leans on his elbows and feels himself shake, his arms, his thighs, his insides. "I wanna feel you. Please. I'm clean, I swear, can't even remember the last time I've been with anyone. I just, I need- I need-"

Sam turns around and looks at him, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. He gets on the bed, first one knee and then the other, leans over Dean and takes his mouth in a deliberately slow kiss. He guides Dean's hand and they both stroke lube up and down Sam's cock together, the lazy, slippery slide of their fingers making heat pool liquid in the pit of Dean's stomach. 

Dean spills broken noises into Sam, and he removes the butt plug from his ass to reveal his stretched, slicked up hole. "Please," he begs again.

Sam pulls back and looks at Dean. Deep into Dean's eyes, down between Dean's legs. He covers Dean's body with his, hovers half an inch above Dean's skin, and Dean whimpers when he feels the full girth and length of Sam's arousal push into him, forcing him open further. 

"Sam," Dean chants. "Sam."

Sam responds with his body, rocking back and pushing forward again with a twist of his hips, _in_. He slides his arms under Dean's thighs, spreads Dean wider for him. Dean writhes against the bed sheets, head thrown back and eyelids fluttering shut, hole clenching around Sam's cock. Sam mouths Dean's exposed throat, fucking him hard, each thrust sending molten pleasure up Dean's spine, making him quiver and cry out with every shove into his prostate. 

" _Dean_ ," Sam sobs, and Dean arches up, his insides alight with a sweetness so fierce it turns him into something more than flesh and bone, his pulsing blood rushing through his veins, his heart soaring. Sam lets go of his thighs and presses their bodies closer together, rolling his hips and rubbing against Dean's aching cock, stoking the flames between them. Dean surrenders, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck, twisting his fingers in Sam's hair, their shared breaths coming faster, the friction of their joined bodies sparking the kind of fire that gives rise to universes. 

It's over too soon, Dean spurting all over Sam's fist, Sam fucking him full with his come. Sam tries to pull out but Dean doesn't let him, holding him in place with his arms around Sam's shoulders, his trembling legs wrapped tightly around Sam's waist. 

They trade messy kisses and breathy moans. They rock together, rub sweat and semen on each other's skin. They murmur each other's names over and over, crowding every space between them, yielding every space inside them. 

When Sam does pull out of him, Dean doesn't feel empty at all. 

*

It's late Sunday night when they finally come up for air. They watch _North by Northwest_ on cable, the first season of _The Wire_ lying untouched on the coffee table. 

Sam flips to CNN when Dean gets up to refill their bowls of nuts and kale chips. 

"Dean," Sam calls. "You gotta come see this."

They spend the next two hours, watching the news. A cemetery in Kansas with hundreds of ghosts milling around. All the oil refineries in Texas blown up, fields of fire and billowing smoke, similar images from Kuwait and Azerbaijan. Massive clouds of locusts in Pakistan and India, a rain of glass in the Balkans, the entire west coast of the United States and Canada plunged into a blackout. Tentative reports of as yet unclear events taking place all across Africa and Europe. 

"I guess this settles it," Dean says. "I was thinking of calling in sick tomorrow morning anyway."

Sam's not smiling when he looks at Dean. It's hard to smile when you're in the middle of the damn apocalypse. There's a gleam in Sam's eyes, unshed tears like the ones making Dean's eyes sting. But also more. A challenge. A purpose. 

"It wasn't chance," Dean says.

Sam frowns at him. "Huh?"

"Us meeting," Dean says. "I thought-" He shakes his head. "It wasn't chance. Not the first time, and not this time either. I feel like- like it was _supposed_ to happen. I feel like we would have met anyway, even if we weren't supposed to, like- I-"

It doesn't make sense. He knows what he's trying to say, but it doesn't make sense.

But, "I get it," Sam says. He kisses Dean, a long-lasting kiss that feels like a promise and a plea all at once. He rises from the couch and offers his hand to Dean, and Dean takes it, making an unspoken pledge of his own. 

This is it, then. They're together. The world is ending, but they're together. 

Maybe they can help a few people. Maybe they can make a difference. Maybe they'll go down along with everyone else.

But they're together. They're _together_. 

That's the only thing that makes any sense at all.


End file.
